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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27767722">all you have to hold</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/heart_to_pen_to_paper/pseuds/heart_to_pen_to_paper'>heart_to_pen_to_paper</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canon Asexual Character, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Gen, Gujarati!Jon, M/M, content warnings in the author’s notes!!!!, it’s not as explicit as i wanted it to be :( but it is there!!, so that’s its own warning probably, takes place over seasons 1-4, the working title for this was ‘tim doesn’t get his nails done: the fic’, we got em both!, which is to say that if i say that jon is wearing nail polish throughout almost all of season four, writing s1 jon is so fricking fun why didn't anyone ever tell me, you can’t tell me i’m wrong</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:53:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,420</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27767722</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/heart_to_pen_to_paper/pseuds/heart_to_pen_to_paper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Five weeks after being appointed as Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, Jon spills nearly every bottle of nail polish he owns on the floor.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Georgie Barker &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>140</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>all you have to hold</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Me: Hee hee ha, I will write a nice short story about Jon wearing nail polish :)<br/>Me, ten thousand words later: FRICK</p><p>Content warnings: mentions of poor reactions and fear of said reactions to a male-presenting character wearing nail polish and/or a skirt (the fears are unfounded and all negative reactions are relatively minor and in the past); short scene with s2-typical paranoia; the fck word is said one whole time (I thought Jon deserved it); unreality tw for the Unknowing; canon-typical Buried content; reference to Daisy threatening Jon with a knife; a very brief mention of nails biting into palms; mostly joking mentions of possible homophobia towards the end- it’s not intended to be serious at all and the characters are unaffected by it. PLEASE tell me if I should specify, tag for, or add anything, or if there’s something I’ve handled insensitively!!!!</p><p>Title taken from a quote from Ocean Vuong’s “Night Sky with Exit Wounds”: <i>&amp; sometimes/ your hand/ is all you have/ to hold</i></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Five weeks after being appointed as Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, Jon spills nearly every bottle of nail polish he owns on the floor.</p><p>The clatter of glass against tile almost shocks him out of his own skin, and for a second he can only stare dumbly at the multicolored bottles now scattered across the floor. Then he scoffs at himself and bends down with a grimace. Gathering them up will be easy enough, but he’s either going to have to waste time putting the polishes in rainbow order again when he hasn’t touched them in ages <em>or</em> not bother and then have to live with knowing he’d left them messy.</p><p>Jon looks at the few bottles left in his ancient biscuit tin, then at the ones still laying on the floor. He sighs. It’s not like he had anything better to do this on fine Friday night.</p><p>Jon’s settled into a rhythm by the time he moves to put the last bottle in place. He’s ready to shove the box out of sight and out of mind once again- hopefully in a position a little more secure than its last- but he pauses upon recognizing the bottle. It’s a purple he’d nicked from Georgie, if by “nicked” you meant “had shoved into his hands while he was cleaning out his things, accompanied by a gruff ‘it always suited you better anyway, bastard,’” which was objectively not true but also definitely not something Jon had been about to argue right at that moment. </p><p>It’s a nice color.</p><p><em>It’d be a miracle if it still works, though,</em> he thinks, wrinkling his nose. He hates throwing out nail polishes. Jon unscrews the cap and is pleasantly surprised to find it doesn’t stick, and then even more surprised to find that not only has the light purple polish not gelled beyond usability, but that it’s actually held up reasonably well for how old it is. </p><p>He gives it a moment of long consideration and places it on his bedside table before he can think better of it. Then he finally stows away the tin to see if there’s any dal dhokli left in the fridge or if he’ll have to order out for the night. </p>
<hr/><p>That Sunday, Jon finds himself locked in a staring contest with the nail polish bottle. It’s still on the table, and also has not spawned any eyes since he put it there. He stares at it anyway.</p><p><em>I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this,</em> he snipes at himself. It’s not like it’d be a whole <em>thing</em> for him to come in with nail polish; after all, he’d seen Chris over in Accounting with blue nails just last week. And hell, it wouldn’t even be the first time <em>he’d </em>worn nail polish to the Institute. Sure, as a researcher he’d always taken care to keep to more <em>demure</em> colors, and yes, he did find himself occasionally wishing for the opportunity to wear some of his bolder shades- that scarlet the exact shade of one of his pants, the bright coral that always made him feel a little braver- but he was <em>fine</em> with keeping to his subdued tones. (And, really, if a coworker were to raise a fuss over something, he rather thinks that they would find his skirts more objectionable than a bit of paint.)</p><p>Is it to do with his assistants? Can’t be- he knows Tim and Sasha better than to worry about their reactions, and he’s seen Martin’s pins. It couldn’t be fear of Elias, could it? (A little voice whispers in Jon’s head that if Elias had had no compunctions about hiring a severely underqualified researcher to the position of Head Archivist, he had little right to rebuke said man for some nail polish.) </p><p>So what, then? Professionalism? He wants to reject that one out of hand- Jon <em>refuses</em> to be ashamed of wearing nail polish to work- but he grits his teeth and considers it.He'd never had an issue as a researcher, so what makes being Head Archivist different?</p><p>It’s just that- well. His promotion to Head Archivist has been, if not quite tumultuous, then certainly awkward. Jon is too young and too inexperienced for this role, and he doesn’t want to emphasize that with something as<em> frivolous</em> as<em> purple nail polish.</em></p><p>He could just use a different color, he thinks abruptly. His dark maroon. That slate gray that would complement half his wardrobe. Something, anything other than <em>pastel purple,</em> for god’s sake.</p><p>But just the thought of going into his closet and digging for a different polish leaves a sour taste on his tongue. He doesn’t… <em>want</em> to wear a different color, he realizes. He wants to paint his nails, and he wants to show off the bright purple as he would any new outfit or new pair of earrings.</p><p>Jon sighs deeply, tilting his head up to the ceiling and closing his eyes. And then he decides that even if he is fundamentally a coward in a lot of ways, life is too short to not wear pastel purple nail polish to work. He pulls the bottle towards himself and gets to work.</p>
<hr/><p>Jon does his very best to enter the Institute as if nothing is different from usual, but the closer he gets to the Archives, the more his courage drains out of him. His hands keep twitching in and out of his pockets, and Jon would shove his hands in them just to keep them still if that weren’t against, well, the whole <em>point.</em> When he passes Rosie’s desk, he manages a quick, jerky wave, hand awkwardly curling just enough to show off the purple paint. Rosie smiles brightly and returns it, but honestly, he has no idea if that means she’d seen it or not. </p><p>A good enough start, he supposes, if only by virtue of not being <em>bad.</em></p><p>The Archives are certainly never warm, but Jon swears the air feels a bit more oppressive than it should when he opens the heavy wooden door to the basement. He does his best to brush it off, and something does loosen in his shoulders when he finds that Tim is already in.</p><p>“Good morning, Tim,” he calls, and Tim looks up from whatever he’s reading over, smile already splitting his face.</p><p>“Morning, boss!” Jon still hasn’t decided how he feels about that particular epithet, but Tim’s grin is not an easy one to resist, and he returns it readily.</p><p>“Is Sasha in yet?” He can’t help but frown when Tim shakes his head in dissent. Damn, he’d wanted to ask her something about his computer’s recording software before getting started today. He’s about to voice as much when Tim speaks again.</p><p>“Nah, not yet, but Martin is!” Jon also can’t help but wrinkle his nose at the name. Tim laughs, but his eyebrows draw together. “Oh, come on, what’s the man ever done to you?” Jon opens his mouth and closes it. Tim frowns. “Jonnnn, come <em>on,</em> he-”</p><p>“Yes, yes, yes,” Jon interrupts. He is not in the mood to hear soliloquizing on Martin Blackwood’s better attributes. “Where is he, then?”</p><p>Tim shrugs unconcernedly. “Bathroom, I think. Stick around an extra two minutes and you can say hi!” He raises his brows in obvious invitation<em>.</em></p><p>“Right,” Jon says darkly. “Well, I should be going. Lots of… recording to do.” He makes to leave, then turns back around and fumbles for some papers he’d left- <em>there-</em> last week. Tim rolls his eyes indulgently, and Jon pretends to ignore himas he heads to his office.</p><p>“Hang on, Jon, turn around for me?” Jon nearly jumps, and he turns to find that Tim’s eyes have lit up for reasons unknown. He arches his eyebrows in question, and Tim happily provides him with an explanation. “I <em>knew</em> it! Love the purple, boss!”</p><p>Oh. Somehow, he’d forgotten.</p><p>Jon hunches his shoulders automatically, prepared for some careless but cutting comment about how Tim wouldn’t have <em>expected</em> such a color from Jon. It doesn’t come. Instead, Tim launches into an impassioned tirade against- an old art teacher of his, Jon thinks? He’s so thrown by the sudden tide of words that it takes a second for them to even process, and he blinks, wide-eyed, before relaxing almost against his will and deciding it’d be easier to just accept it and pretend he’d understood more than one word out of ten.</p><p>“I mean, who cares! Purple is purple, you’ve gotta accept that!” Tim throws his hands into the air, seeming to have finally run out of steam. As Jon debates the virtues of informing Tim that something like lavender was most definitely not the same as, say, aubergine, Tim meets his eyes, gaze abruptly and disarmingly sincere. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you paint your nails, you know. They look great.” </p><p>Jon can’t even try not to fold against that kind of honesty. “Thanks, Tim.” He doesn’t quite match Tim’s broad smile, but he can’t hide how the corners of his lips curve up as he tips head in thanks. Tim flaps his handaffably.</p><p>“ ’Course!” He pauses. “Hey, remember when I asked you forever ago if you’d do my nails?”</p><p>Jon does remember. It’d been years ago- back when he’d first started in the Institute, actually. He’d worn nail polish within his first month at research as a sort of litmus test, and Tim had been the only one to approach him about it. It looked good, he’d said, and was Jon any good at painting other people’s nails? It’d been forever since he’d done his own and he always managed to make a mess when he tried.</p><p>He doesn’t remember his answer clearly, but he knows he would’ve rebuffed Tim solely for being a loud stranger intruding on his personal space. Eventually he’d warmed up to Tim and they’d started talking, but though the topic had floated up again every once in a while, nothing had ever come of it.</p><p>Jon looks at Tim again. He knows it’s been… rough, these past few weeks. He knows he’s been twice as sharp and barely half as considerate to Tim he deserves. And Tim’s taken all of this in stride in a way Jon could only dream of.</p><p>“I’ll see if I can pencil it into my schedule,” Jon says dryly in lieu of any of that, and as he turns around he’s rewarded by Tim’s bright burst of laughter as the door to his office closes behind him.</p><p> </p><p>Jon doesn’t know how long he’s been working when the sound of the door opening half-draws him out of his notes, and he doesn’t look up as he motions for the person to enter.</p><p>“Ah, Sasha, hello- I’d been meaning to ask you about-”</p><p>“Uh, no, just me, actually!” Jon tries to control his expression upon hearing a voice that is not in fact Sasha’s, but he knows he doesn’t quite manage it. He gives up on trying to unfurrow his brow and looks up, unsurprised to find Martin in the doorway holding a cup of tea. Jon honestly has no idea why Martin hasn’t given up on his habit of bringing in tea for him every day. He wouldn’t have expected it regardless, and he’s… quite sure Martin is aware enough of Jon’s opinions to know that trying to “butter Jon up,” or whatever this is, will not improve anything for him. So Jon really has no idea why Martin persists in bringing him admittedly delicious cups of tea every day.</p><p>That man. He’ll never understand him.</p><p>Jon absent-mindedly thanks him for the cuppa, thoughts already turning back to his notes, but barely half a minute later he’s distracted by the sensation of eyes upon him and looks up to find that Martin is indeed still in the room.</p><p>“Was there something you needed, Martin?” he asks tersely. Maybe his tone isn’t quite deserved, but Martin’s fidgeting hands are giving him second-hand jitters.</p><p>“Oh!” Martin exclaims. “Right, uh-” He seems oddly intent on the papers in Jon’s hands, and Jon glances down to see if there’s something egregious like tea rings or bloodstains on them. There are none that he can see, so what-?</p><p>Jon’s looks back up to find Martin’s gazestill glued to Jon’s hands, and it’s then Jon realizes that this might be the first time that Martin has ever seen him with nail polish on.</p><p>The thought isn’t <em>unsettling,</em> per se, because Jon has seen the little flags sitting on his desk, and anyway it’s very difficult to be afraid of a man like Martin Blackwood. Even so, Jon finds himself unaccountably nervous. He remembers all too clearly the looks people would throw at him in Research, clad in sweater vests and sporting colorful nails. It’s not like nail polish or, or <em>bright purple</em> are things people expect to be part of his aesthetic, after all.</p><p>“Did you have something to say?” This time his tone really is biting, and though Jon scrutinizes Martin’s face closely, he finds he can’t read whatever is written rather transparently across it. It’s not hostility causing his face to redden slightly, surely? Then-</p><p>“It- it suits you,” Martin fairly squeaks, flailing a hand in a way that can only indicate Jon’s nail polish, and Jon… deflates. It seems he had nothing to worry about after all.</p><p>“Thank you, Martin.” He tries to convey both apology and gratitude with a slightly sheepish smile, and then Martin <em>does</em> squeak, turning tail and leaving the room so quickly that Jon briefly thinks it’s a good thing he’s no longer holding a full cup of tea. Then he curses at himself for forgetting to ask Martin to bring Sasha in. Ah, well. He’d seemed distracted anyway, maybe it was better he hadn’t.</p><p><em>I really will never understand him,</em> he thinks, and then returns to the statement before him. If his laptop decides to act up <em>again-</em></p>
<hr/><p>Jon doesn’t paint his nails for a long, long time after… after Prentiss. It’s just- he doesn’t want to talk about it.</p><p>It’s just, his hands are always shaking, now, from anxiety or sleep deprivation or too much caffeine <em>(or paranoia, you can say it, Jon Sims, say </em>paranoia-), and it’d be such a waste of time, anyway, to put nail polish on when someone wanted to <em>kill you</em>, wouldn’t it, and-</p><p>He doesn’t want to talk about it.</p>
<hr/><p>“Spa day!”</p><p>The words are so incongruous with the anxiety currently swamping Jon’s throat that it takes a second for him to realize they were addressed to him. He looks up blankly to find Georgie standing before him, holding a plastic box filled with familiar colorful containers. He stares at them for a long moment, then meets her eyes and blinks. “What.”</p><p>His tone is flat enough to balance a coin on, but they wouldn’t have lasted as long as they did if Georgie didn’t know better than to ignore that. She waggles her eyebrows at him and raises the box higher. “I was thinking we could do manicures! Don’t worry, I’ve tucked away the Admiral in my room to prevent any, you know, <em>accidents.</em> I’m doing your nails, which means you won’t be able to do mine, but-” She breaks off at whatever look is on his face.<em> “What?”</em></p><p>“Georgie, I-” Jon hates this. “I can’t.” He can’t do something as pointless as <em>paint his nails</em> when he’s going to meet Jude Perry tomorrow; he has to <em>focus,</em> has review everything he does and doesn’t know about her, has to-</p><p>Georgie’s face hardens. “Jon, I know you can’t- can’t, won’t, whatever- tell me about what’s happening with you, but I highly doubt <em>nail polish</em> is going to make or break <em>whatever</em> you’ve got going on tomorrow.”</p><p>Jon just looks up at her helplessly, feeling distinctly cornered as she stares down at him. </p><p>Georgie’s shoulders slump, the box lowering with them. “Listen, I know it’s been more than a while since we did this together, but you’ve been looking so <em>nervous,</em> and I just… wanted to do something nice with you.”</p><p>Georgie still knows nothing of the truth of the Archives, of monsters who steal friend’s faces and bosses who beat old men to death with rusty pipes. Jon hasn’t found the words for it all, doesn’t know how or if he’ll even be able to. But Georgie knows <em>him.</em> And now she’s standing in front of him looking disappointed and entreating and hopeful, and it turns out that Jon hates that look on her face as much as he had so many years ago.</p><p>“No, Georgie, that’s- that’s lovely of you,” he sighs, trying to inject as much sincerity into the words as he can. “And trust me, you just allowing me to <em>be</em> here is ‘nicer’ than you could imagine. I just-”</p><p>“Great!” she chirps, any trace of despondency gone like it’d never been there at all. “Hurry up, I don’t actually have all day- you’d be surprised at how little free time you have even when you make your own hours, you know.” She plops herself down on the floor in front of him, eyebrows raised, and, well, Jon really has no choice but to get up and join her,does he.</p><p>Once he does, though, that dread that’s been clogging up his chest all day rises up again. “Georgie, I just- I really don’t know if this is <em>appropriate,”</em> he protests lamely even as he settles across from her. </p><p>“Well, what would it be <em>in-</em>appropriate for?” she shoots back, and Jon finds himself legitimately dumbfounded at the thought of having to say <em>Tomorrow I am going to go meet up with a woman who likely has honest-to-god </em>fire powers,<em> and as such I have bigger problems to worry about than making sure my nail polish dries evenly.</em> “That’s what I thought,” Georgie smirks after a long pause, and he makes nofurther move to protest. </p><p>She places the box in the space between them, and Jon can’t help but smile at the familiarity of it all. He frowns distastefully at a blue, which Georgie catches and scowls at him for, and is similarly unimpressed with her other polishes. “Just the red is fine,” he finally sighs, picking out her quintessentially cherry bottle. </p><p>Georgie rolls her eyes at him. “Bo-ring. Fine, then-” she squints at the label- “red-hot passion it is!” She cackles at his look of horror before yanking his hand and setting it on her knee.</p><p>Georgie keeps up a steady stream of chatter as she works, and Jon has to admit that this is far better an alternative to sitting on the couch all day and trying and failing not to think about tomorrow. He’s mostly content to let her words wash over him, but when she complains about getting a headache from the chemical smell of the polish, he can’t resist an old jibe.</p><p>“Well, just because you have a weak constitution,” he sniffs. His voice just barely trembles with humor, but he manages to keep his face straight.</p><p>Georgie slaps him lightly on the knee, grinningthrough her outrage. “You could at least act like I’m doing a favor for you, you know!”</p><p>“You manipulated me into this is what you did,” he mutters, fighting down a grin of his own. She sticks her tongue out at him, and they sit in comfortable silence for a little after that, until: </p><p>“Did you know the main ingredient in nail polish is highly flammable and is in fact what makes TNT explode? Nitrocellulose, it’s called,” Jon says, apropos of nothing.</p><p>Georgie blinks at him. “No, Jon, I did <em>not</em> know that,” she says, exaggeratedly slow. “No one knows that. Why do <em>you</em> know that?” He huffs at her, but his faux annoyance turns into a bemused breath of laughter. She looks at him. “What?”</p><p>“The things I know surprise even me,” he snorts. “I actually don’t even remember what spurred <em>that</em> particular late-night internet trawl.” </p><p>Georgie laughs. “Nerd,” she accuses, fondness undeniable, and instead of responding he just motions impatiently for her to continue. She scoffs at him and he actually smiles, and for a second it’s like he never walked into his office to discover a man he’d just been talking to slumped over his desk with his skull caved in.</p><p>His hand jerks. Georgie’s head snaps up to scold him, but then she tilts her head quizzically at whatever expression Jon can’t cover up in time. He motions for her to continue again, a little weakly this time, and her lips thin but she does.</p><p>That night, he runs his fingers compulsively over his nails, feeling the smooth texture. If he concentrates, he can imagine he can still smell the nail polish in the air. He’s always liked it, no matter what Georgie says.</p><p>It’s too dark to see the color, but Jon stares at his nails and tries to feel brave.</p>
<hr/><p>The nail polish survives Jude Perry. It’s so ridiculous Jon would laugh if he weren’t so close to crying.</p>
<hr/><p>Jon has always entered the Institute early, but nowadays it feels like a necessity. He knows it’s hypocritical to the point of being reprehensible, but he can’t bear the sensation of judging eyes on him, taking in his unironed clothes and growing collection of scars and whispering into their hands and friends’ ears about how <em>that’s him, that’s the Archivist, what is </em>wrong<em> with him-</em></p><p>The memory of the heavy feeling that’d hung in the air the day he’d walked into the Archives with painted nails for the first time slams into him like a bucket of ice water. He doesn’t know if it’s something supernatural or just simple human insight, but suddenly he <em>knows</em> it was the Eye, merciless even to its precious Archivist, and for a second Jon can’t breathe through a surge of sheer hatred for the thing worming its way into every aspect of his life, into<strong> <em></em></strong><em>him.</em></p><p>He exhales slowly and tries to get through the gleaming upper halls of the Institute as quickly as possible.</p><p> </p><p>When Jon walks into the Archives, he doesn’t know if he or Tim is more shocked to see the other. Tim hasn’t exactly been a model employee recently, but on the other hand, he’s probably the only person in the Archives even more dedicated to figuring out the Unknowing than Jon. Makes sense he’d show up early once in a while, then. (He wonders distantly if Tim wants to escape the whispers too, the overlong glances and suspicion-tinged pity, before shoving that thought very far down indeed.)</p><p>Jon wrestles with a tide of ungainly words crashing in his mouth and against his teeth. <em>I’m sorry,</em> he wants to blurt out. Apology, or at least the will for it, is always his first instinct with Tim these days. He manages to push it down and get out a shaky good morning instead. Tim returns it with a clipped hello, very obviously waiting for Jon to leave. Jon does not leave.</p><p>“I was, ah, hoping you could get me some papers?” Jon doesn’t know why he asks. He doesn’t know why he’s still standing here instead of fleeing for his office. He doesn’t know why he’s asking Tim for a <em>favor</em> when they haven’t spoken civilly in almost a literal year. Jon just doesn’t know.</p><p>“Oh yeah?” Tim says, enthusiastic as a dead fish. Either Jon has spontaneously developed mind reading (which isn’t even out of the realm of possibility at this point, <em>god),</em> or Tim has actually found out how to audibly convey <em>get them yourself</em> without a single word.</p><p>Christ, Jon doesn’t know what he was <em>thinking.</em> What was this supposed to be, some attempt at pretending that their world hadn’t utterly fallen to pieces? What did he think, that Tim deigning to get him some papers would fix something? What was Jon going to do if he did? Go out to lunch with him? Offer to paint Tim’s <em>nails?</em> After everything? After so much paranoia and so many monsters and so much trust shattered beyond repair?</p><p>“Never mind,” he mutters, a blend of disappointment and embarrassment curdling in his stomach. He awkwardly slinks to the desk he thinks he left the case notes for Rue Havard’s statement on and roots around. He is very aware of Tim’s eyes on him, which is so bitterly ironic he can’t even laugh at it.</p><p>Jon straightens up when he finds the papers, a quiet <em>aha</em> falling from his lips unbidden. When he turns, he stops dead. Tim is still staring at him, gaze burning and lips pressed tight. Somehow their eyes meet- though Jon couldn’t say who was responsible for it- and that’s when the deja vu hits.</p><p>Jon is left dizzy against the onslaught of memory. A day where Tim’s grin had stretched across his face and reached his eyes as he’d complimented Jon’s nails, a day where they’d been friends and the Institute had been a place of work and not a prison. A day where a pop of purple hadn’t been something like a peace offering.</p><p>Tim breaks eye contact, and then Jon is left staring after him as he stalks out of the room, frame tight with tension and hands curled into fists. Tim had been such a good actor, once. Jon wonders where that went.</p><p><em>Probably with Sasha,</em> he thinks humorlessly, then shudders so hard that Basira, who he hadn’t noticed entering the room, gives him a weird look. Jon ducks her gaze and hurries into his office.</p><p> </p><p><em>Tim would look good in purple, </em>Jon thinks one day the next week, completely at random. And, absurdly, this is the first thing to make him cry in months.</p>
<hr/><p>Everything feels a little to the left of surreal when you’re sitting in a bed-and-breakfast and planning to stop the apocalypse the next day, Jon finds. He’s never dealt with boredom well, and he feels like he might actually go insane <em>(bad choice of words,</em> <em>bad choice of words)</em> sitting alone in his cramped hotel room. There’s a tape recorder by his side, because of <em>fucking</em> course there is, but for once it isn’t running. Well, not like there’s much to record at this point.</p><p>Jon is unsurprised to find himself fidgeting- index finger over thumbnail, thumb over index nail, over and over for who knows how long before he catches himself. He stops with some effort, but after that he can’t stop himself from staring at his hands. <em>Skinny, scarred, and utterly impotent things, </em>he thinks, with a shadow of what is either grief or rage. But for some reason, what catches his attention are his nails. They’re far too long. It’s not as though he’s had the time to do something as ridiculous as maintain them recently, after all.</p><p>An echo of a Tim from an eon ago flashes behind his eyes. Unscarred face, trusting eyes. He’d asked Jon if he’d ever do his nails. Maybe they’d finally get around to doing it after… all this.</p><p><em>And maybe we’ll discover the entity ofsunshine and rainbows while we’re at it,</em> Jon thinks acidly. </p><p>He clenches his jaw and exhales deeply. There’ll be time to figure that out later. There<em> will.</em></p><p><em>And, what the hell,</em> he thinks. <em>Maybe we could even invite Martin.</em> Jon doesn’t want to think about Martin and his round, anxious face facing off against Elias, so instead he tries to figure out what colors Martin might pick. He seemed like the kind who’d like nail art, Jon thinks, but he could be wrong. He’s never known half as much about Martin as he’d ought to.</p><p>Inevitably, though, Jon’s thoughts drift back to the Unknowing and their skeleton of a plan. Jon had once told Georgie about how nail polish contained nitrocellulose, an explosive. The Eye must have told him that, he realizes now. Did that mean something? Did any of this?</p><p>Jon goes to bed with thoughts of C-4 and facts about gunpowder he’s never learned swimming in his head. He does not rest easy.</p>
<hr/><p><em>Do you even know what a hand </em>is?</p><p>The voice reverberates in his ears to the point of pain. He doesn’t know what a hand is, but he knows that it’s not an ear. That’s something, right?</p><p>Hands are… Hands are. He has hands. Hands are for… doing things. Hands can do things. <strike>A flash of warmth?</strike> Do hands hold things? <strike>No, can’t be, things keep <em>slipping-</em></strike> Burn things? Hands get burned, maybe. <strike>What is a burn?</strike> Hands are for doing things and they can burn maybe. Are hands color? Everything is color, here <strike>where is here?</strike>, but he thinks that maybe that color is… different. Safe. <strike>What is <em>safe?</em></strike> Warm smiles soft touch sharpsmell colorful hands? Hands are color, maybe.</p><p>Then there are more voices and there is more color and there are more hands but everything is different and nothing is safe and then there is-</p><p><em>I don’t forgive you. But thank you for this.</em> It sounds like lips bitten through and coffee ice cream and purple purple purple? It sounds like pain.</p><p>Everything goes black.</p>
<hr/><p>Jon is, for the most part, not too torn up about losing most of his possessions when he comes back from the coma. His flat had largely been just a place to stay overnight the days he managed to drag himself out of the Institute, and it’d stopped being even that in the past years. The things he truly would’ve missed, like his grandmother’s jhumka earrings, were safe in his bank account. Georgie had sent him a curt text saying she’d managed to salvage some of his books that he hadn’t had the courage to respond to, so they were likely languishing in her flat. The rest is all just… details, he tries to convince himself. That’s all.</p><p>(Briefly, he mourns losing Georgie’s pastel purple. He mourns a lot of things.)</p>
<hr/><p>It’s probably inexcusably whiny to be picky about pain when you’re trapped in an all-but-literal hell dimension, but Jon really does think he could do without the sensation of dirt under his fingernails while he’s also being crushed to death under uncountable tons of earth.</p><p>In the end it’s just another indignity on top of the relentless, crushing fear (ha). Adding sand to the wound, as it were. He’d broken enough nails crawling here; it feels ridiculous that there are even enough remaining to catch grit.</p><p>Unbidden, an image flashes across his mind: his fingernails growing out to match Daisy’s, some morbidly long and others painfully short, breaking off as he scrabbled to get free of the dirt crushing crushing crushing him-</p><p>He looses an exhale that’s more of a wheeze. No. No, he won’t let that happen.</p><p>He twitches his fingers in Daisy’s hand.</p><p>“With me, Jon?” she asks immediately.</p><p>“With you,” he promises.</p><p>It could be worse, he thinks breathlessly. He thinks of blunt nails digging into his forearm, a knife biting into his neck, the sudden surety that he was being stared down by something with much sharper teeth than him. Daisy’s hand isn’t quite warm in his, but it’s a pressure infinitely more welcome than that of the Choke. In the distance he can hear rocks grinding together and screams either real or imagined, but for right now, their little corner of hell just contains the sound of breathing.</p><p>Yes, it certainly could be worse.</p><p> </p><p>Some time later (he will never know and never Know <em>exactly</em> how much later, and he thinks that’s almost a blessing), he will push open a coffin lid with hands caked in dirt that he’ll never quite wash off alongside a woman who once wanted to kill him. Their palms will be scraped, their nails torn, but their grimy hands will remain clasped together until Daisy drops his to embrace and be embraced by a shellshocked Basira. Jon will bring his suddenly empty hand up to his chest and wince at the pain that lances through it when he tries to uncurl it.</p><p>That’s okay. When he breathes in his abused chest will expand almost all the way, and the stuffy air of the Archives will never have felt cleaner. When he looks down at his hands, crusted with dirt and dried blood and trembling, it will be the first time in a long time that they haven’t looked like the hands of a monster.</p>
<hr/><p>Jon’s long since given up on trying to record any more statements for the day; he’s been feeling off-color in a way he thought he’d given up after the coma, and no amount of statements seems to be helping. He refuses to give up the pretence of working, though, which means he’s stuck sitting at his desk and pretending not to watch Daisy tap frustratedly at her phone.</p><p>Her nails are long, longer than Jon thinks he’s seen them since after they’d left the Coffin, and Jon Knows suddenly that she’s always hated long nails but she hasn’t been able to get up the courage to ask Basira about them. Her irritation with the clicking sound against the screen only enhances her frustration with her fine motor control, or lack thereof, which was shot to hell after being crushed under the weight of the forever-deep-below-creation for months, and-</p><p>And Jon doesn’t want to drown in someone else’s head when his is already so loud, not when that someone is the only person in the Archives who can still bring themself to meet his eyes, and he just wishes his own hands were capable of anything other than wringing each other and being <em>useless.</em></p><p>“I could do. Your nails.”</p><p>Daisy looks up. “Sorry?” Jon wants to melt into the floor. They still have the Coffin, right? He knows they sent it off to Artifact Storage, but he could probably walk in there no problem. Talia, the unlucky bastard who got saddled with transporting it there, would probably gladly shove him into it herself for making her deal with it in the same week her her partner lost their job, and-</p><p>“Jon?” That’s when Jon registers that there was no anger in her first question, and maybe even concern in the second.</p><p>“I could. Paint. Your nails.” His voice is louder than it was the first time, but certainly not stronger. His hands shake under his desk to match, and he curls his fingers into his trousers. He manages a glance at Daisy to find she’s looking steadily at him, and his gaze skitters away. Embarrassment burns low and hot in his stomach. Funnily enough, the normalcy of it all- of Jon sticking his foot in his mouth purely because he’s bad with people and not because he’s the living personification of the phrase “too much information”- doesn’t actually make him feel better.</p><p>“… do you even have any nail polish?”</p><p><em>Not a no,</em> Jon thinks, and the cool rush of relief in his stomach is so alien he could choke on it. He breathes in deep instead, lets it fill his lungs. <em>Not a no.</em></p><p>“I used to.” He shrugs as if that could physically shake off his nerves. “I might be able to scrounge something up.” He won’t. He’ll have to go to the store two streets away from the Institute. A clerk is stocking off-brand makeup wipes in the same aisle that the nail polish is displayed in right now. They’re thinking about how much they hate this job and about the sandwich they’re going to have for lunch, which contains cheese a week past expiry date-</p><p>“Alright.” Daisy shrugs. The motion looks painful, but her voice is unbothered.</p><p>“Al- alright?” She cuts him a sharp look, and for the first time she looks annoyed.</p><p>“ ’s what I said, isn’t it?”</p><p>“Right.” Jon flounders. “Right, uh- any color preference?”</p><p>For the first time, Daisy seems a little uncertain. “Nah,” she says dismissively. Jon doesn’t have to Know she’s lying, but he tries not to look- not to look <em>hungry</em> for an answer, for the truth. He just raises his eyebrows and waits. God, he’s so bad at this.</p><p>When Daisy finally turns to look at him, though, there doesn’t seem to be any supernatural persuasion needed to get her answer. “No red.” Daisy’s voice is soft, but she looks him right in the eyes, and Jon doesn’t look away. He doesn’t need the Beholding to see what’s playing behind her eyes- an image of his shaking, red-tipped hands, the paint not even chipped yet, touching red she had painted on his neck.</p><p>He hadn’t taken Daisy as one for symbolism.</p><p>“No red,” he agrees. Then, with a touch of humor-“Red isn’t really your color, anyway. Better save that for me.”</p><p>“Oh, really, Sims? You think that?” The words come out in a low almost-growl, but Jon can hear a rumble of laughter behind it. Jon forces his expression to go as haughty and serious as possible.</p><p>“I do,” he nods gravely. “It’d look awful against your skin tone.” Daisy scoffs. Jon hasn’t ever heard her sound like this before, and it fills his chest with something only a few steps short of delight.</p><p>“What, and you’d look so much better?” A smile threatens at the corner of her lips. Jon doesn’t bother hiding his.
“I would!” The affront could be real, but he can’t quite summon it up when he’s managing his first real smile in… ages. “I’ll have you know I look <em>fantastic</em> in red, thank you very much.”</p><p>“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Daisy snorts, her smile sharp with nothing more than teasing and her teeth not at all pointed, and when Basira walks in it’s to find them throwing the same pen back and forthacross his desk. They snap to attention at her (somewhat baffled) reprimand for Daisy to get to physical therapy, but Jon <em>knows,</em> lowercase, that Daisy’s as happy as he is when Basira marches her out of the room.</p><p>(It’s why he doesn’t hesitate at all to pick out the color, when he does go to buy it. The creamy yellow is the kind of cheap that promises to be more trouble than it’s worth, and it’s more a connoisseur’s eye than the Eye that tells him it’ll take two coats to go on evenly, but in the end it’s something bright and soft and exactly the opposite of the rest of their lives.)</p><p> </p><p>For all that, it’s horribly awkward to actually get started. Jon pulls out the bottle the next Wednesday and Daisy stares and Jon says <em>ah, nail polish? For? Your nails? </em>and Daisy says <em>oh right</em> and then they can’t figure out where to sit and it’s fine, Daisy, I don’t need a paper, I promise I won’t spill anything on your jeans, don’t you <em>dare</em> get a statement-</p><p>They end up sitting across from each at his desk after Jon’s suggestion to sit on the floor is received rather poorly. Despite that, Jon still feels like a twelve-year-old at a slumber party. He’s probably more okay with it than he should be.</p><p>He gets started in silence, and while normally silence is more than tolerable with Daisy, something about it feels strained and awkward now. <em>For god’s sake, Jon, it’s not like this is something monumental, </em>he chides himself, even though it sort of is. He applies the nail polish extra carefully to make up for it.</p><p>Daisy ends up being the one to break the silence, voice rough in a way he hasn’t heard before. “You… do this often?”</p><p>Jon exhales. “I used to, in, in uni, mostly. Sometimes as a researcher here. Not so much once I started- after I became the Archivist.”</p><p>She snorts. “I can imagine.” Jon wants to protest that, for some reason, but then he thinks about pastel purple and Tim’s hands in fists and decides he doesn’t want to bother.</p><p>They lapse into a slightly more comfortable silence before Daisy speaks again. “I never really liked nail polish.”</p><p>Jon almost startles, but his brush strokes stay steady. He hums questioningly, but Daisy doesn’t say anything else. He debates the wisdom of opening his mouth for a little, but, well, he doubts Daisy will do anything too egregious to him before the nail polish is dry anyway. “Yeah?” He does his best to regulate his tone, keep it encouraging but not condescending, and he guesses whatever he did worked, because Daisy does respond to that.</p><p>“Yeah.” Daisy doesn’t look at him. “I could get used to this, though.”</p><p>Daisy squints at her nails intently when Jon finally pulls away, and Jon finds himself almost nervous awaiting her judgement.</p><p>“They’re alright,” she declares, and Jon reflexively opens his mouth to protest. She silences him with an imperious glare and continues. “My nails are toolong. You should cut em next time.” She raises her eyebrows at him, managing to straddle a line between commanding and tentative that Jon is honestly impressed by.</p><p>“I can do that,” Jon agrees, and his smile comes easier than it has in a long time. </p>
<hr/><p>The sight of Daisy’s cheerful fingers in the following days makes something warm curl in his chest whenever he glimpses it. His gaze tends to linger on it longer than is probably justifiable, and more than once he has to stifle a smile before Daisy, ever aware of watchful eyes, can turn to squint at him suspiciously.</p><p>That, more than anything, is what convinces him to make another trip to that corner shop outside the Institute. The selection falls far short of impressive, and he very much doubts the quality is worth the frankly ridiculous price, but he decides for once to let himself do what he never did even in uni. He leaves the store with steady hands and a plastic bag filled with the widest assortment of colors he’s owned in years- a rich plum and a deep green that are going to look <em>amazing</em> against his skin, a light pink he only buys because the Eye snidely informed him that it would be almost indistinguishable from the color of his unpainted nails, a light blue he would’ve passed over if it hadn’t reminded him of a jumper Martin had once worn to an Institute holiday party, an absolutely garish sparkly aqua that he just knows is going to apply streaky and leave him infuriated with himself… The list goes on. It’s the most impractical and self-indulgent (not to mention <em>expensive)</em> purchase he’s made in as long as he can remember, and even walking through the doors of the Archives can’t wipe the smile off his face.</p><p> </p><p>He makes yet another trip to that shop the very next day; he’d forgotten to get nail files and a clipper in his slightly manic rush to pick out colors, not to mention nail polish remover, and… he wants to do this right.</p><p>It’s almost unbearably awkward to drop even more nail supplies on the counter for the third time in barely two weeks. By some unholy coincidence, Jon has dealt with the same cashier each time, and while he’d love to say that retail workers are too stressed to remember faces, he is…. quite sure that his is a memorable one, and not in a good way. Still, the whole experience is vaguely surreal in a way that’s entirely mundane, and somehow thatheartens him as much as the sight of freshly rainbow-organized nail polish bottles lined up on his desk.</p><p>Jon pulls a color towards himself and gets to work.</p><p> </p><p>Daisy does an abysmal job at painting his nails when he finally cons her into doing them for him. That’s fine. Jon doesn’t think he’s laughed so much in years, and it’s not even just at the mess Daisy leaves his hands in.</p>
<hr/><p>It doesn’t change anything, not really. Hunger still gnaws at his stomach more often than not, and painted nails cut crescents into skin just as well as unpainted ones. Basira still looks at him with barely-sheathed distrust, and Melanie could not be less obviously miserable if she tried. Daisy’s hands still shake in his when they huddle on the floor of his office and try to drown out the songs of their gods with the Archers.</p><p>But once Melanie looks almost approving when she hands him a paper and notices the navy blue adorning his nails, and one day Daisy tells him that Basira complimented her new coat, and it could be worse. It could be worse.</p>
<hr/><p>Martin does not leave the Lonely unscathed.</p><p>Jon remembers what Martin’s hand had felt like on his during Prentiss’ invasion all those years (centuries, feels like) ago. It had been soft and clammy and held Jon’s like it was something made of glass and precious. Now it’s cold and curls around Jon’s fingers gingerly when Jon slips his hand into his, like his fingers are the ones made of glass and he’s scared they’ll shatter. Jon grips it harder, tries to find a balance between gentle and firm to prove that they won’t break, to say <em>I’m here, you’re here, we’re here and we’re safe.</em> He doesn’t know if he succeeds, but at least Martin’s hands are a little warmer by the time the view outside their train window has turned to green hills shrouded in a gentler kind of fog than the one they’d left behind.</p><p>There are more obvious changes, too. His ginger hair now has streaks of white, brighter and more visible than the gray in Jon’s black and infinitely sadder for it; his eyes are grayer than blue. He’s lovely.</p><p>Maybe that’s an unfair thought to have <em>now,</em> when they’re on the run from evils of all kinds and more scarred and broken than they’ve ever been, but it’s true. Martin’s lovely. Jon wishes he’d noticed it sooner.</p><p>Martin shivers, and Jon grabs his hand before he can think the better of it. When Martin shivers <em>harder,</em> Jon’s grip slackens immediately, apologies already forming on his lips. But Martin’s hand spasms in Jon’s, grip tightening to almost painful before relenting, and he doesn’t let go.</p><p>“Sorry,” Martin rasps. His voice hasn’t quite returned, and Jon takes a moment to remind himself that Peter Lukas’ blood currently sits atop sea foam-capped waves. “Just. Um.” He sort of nods at their hands- Jon’s hand, maybe- and finishes in a near whisper. “You know.” For all that his hands are cold, his face is warming to a wonderfully familiar red, and it warms Jon’s own chest to see.</p><p>Jon thinks nonsensically again of glass, of translucence and fragility and the fact that it’s deceptively strong in ways you wouldn’t expect. He could say that the tensile strength of glass is one thousand megapascals, that it takes ten tonnes to shatter a cubic centimeter of glass. Or he could say<em> I know. Trust me,</em><strong> <em></em></strong><em>I know.</em> But something is swelling behind Jon’s breastbone, something so big and bright that he can’t find the room for breath, and Jon has never been all that good with words anyway. He just nods and takes in how Martin’s shoulders slump a little in relief. He does his best not to stare, but, well.</p><p>Jon glances down at their hands, intertwined. They look good together. They really, really do.</p>
<hr/><p>Three weeks later finds them playing yet another game of twenty questions, and today the act of asking doesn’t even weigh heavy on Jon’s voice. It makes him lighter than usual, a touch brighter, and he knows Martin’s noticed it from the way his own smile is reflected even more widely in Martin’s face. <em>Like a positive feedback loop of happiness, </em>he thinks, almost giddy. He wants to have this kind of day every day- the kind where him being happy makes Martin happy, the kind where all the rituals of personhood come easy and with no strings attached.</p><p>Martin has indulgently relinquished control of his hands to him, and Jon mindlessly fiddles with his fingers. Almost the entire length of Jon’s body is pressed against Martin’s, tiny couch be damned, and Jon can feel Martin shaking against him with self-conscious giggles after a story about an ill-advised stick-and-poke. Jon thinks he’s never felt lighter or warmer. He thinks he’s never held anything more important than Martin’s hands.</p><p>“Have you ever painted your nails before?” The question falls from his lips with absolutely no conscious thought. Martin’s hand jerks a little in his, and Jon cranes his neck up to read his expression. The leftover warmth hasn’t disappeared from his eyes, but his eyebrows have creased into a frown. He squeezes Martin’s fingers in question- <em>all good?-</em> but Martin shakes his head reassuringly, mouth tilted in an odd half-smile.</p><p>“I… haven’t for a while, no.” Jon gives a soft <em>oh</em> of understanding, and there’s a half-second where it looks like Martin might curl into himself before he deliberately straightens his shoulders and pins a full smile to his face, crooked but resolute. Jon loves him so much he thinks he could stop breathing from it.</p><p>The conversation moves on, but the image sticks in Jon’s mind. Martin’s hands, endlessly dear, tipped in something bright to match.</p><p>He likes that idea. He likes it a lot.</p>
<hr/><p>It’s another good day. An exceedingly good day, even. Both of them had felt up to going to the village, and they’d even felt comfortable enough to split up briefly inside a cutesy little store of odds and ends. (Jon is distantly aware of Martin’s presence, as he always is, and though he’s sure the Beholding plays at least some part in it, today he can convince himself that it’s something less sinister.)</p><p>Jon doesn’t exactly have anything in mind- he’s never been one for knickknacks- so he simply wanders through the unsorted and overstuffed aisles. That is, until he finds himself standing before a shelf that might as well have compelled him there for how it rivets him in place.</p><p>The selection isn’t particularly impressive, but somehow, the small collection of nail polishes- the kind that came in miniscule bottles and only didn’t run out after one use if you were lucky- is the most captivating thing he’s seen in the entire store. Jon spares a minute to wonder what he must look like to the mundane inhabitants of this little town- some strange, scarred man standing in front of the nail polishes- before brushing the thought aside and inspecting the colors more closely.</p><p>He’s mostly scanning them by routine when it strikes him:<em> He wants to buy one for Martin.</em> The thought nearly bowls him over. That conversation from days ago comes back to him, the memory of Martin’s hands captured in his and the way he’d smiled at Jon burning bright in his mind. The idea of taking Martin’s precious, precious hands and painting them in brilliant color burns brighter.</p><p>What is he thinking? Christ, he doesn’t even know if Martin is <em>comfortable</em> with nail polish. He… does know Martin’s favorite color, actually, and he hadn’t even had to Know it- courtesy of some half-forgotten overheard exchange from years ago in the Archives, he thinks. Still, what if nail polish just isn’t Martin’s thing? His thoughts go in circles until they start to snarl and catch on each other, and soon he’s staring at the shelf with a single-minded intensity that the nail polish is probably unwholly undeserving of.</p><p>“See something you like?” </p><p>It’s not easy to startle Jon these days, but apparently he was lost in thought enough that the voice that appears directly behind him manages to make him jump. Still, he relaxes even before that familiar apologetic flustering reaches his ears. He could never be scared of Martin.</p><p>He leans back as Martin’s hands twine around his midsection, smiling up at him. “Not exactly. You?” Martin shakes his head. Jon is surprised and not surprised- Martin <em>is</em> the type to collect little trinkets, a fact that suffuses his chest with a fondness like sunshine, but he never seems capable of actually making the purchase after something’s caught his eye. <em>Something we’ll have to work on,</em> Jon thinks. Still, he doesn’t want to push today.</p><p><em>Or what if-?</em> Jon tenses against Martin’s steadying bulk, and Martin’s arms tighten in worry. Jon waves a hand in reassurance even as he pushes out of Martin’s hold and turns to face him.</p><p>“Actually…” He hesitates. Then he forges on, because since when he has been afraid to ask questions? “I was thinking about getting nail polish for you? If- if you’d like that?”</p><p>“For <em>me?”</em> Martin all but gapes, almost comically confused, and the first thought that runs through Jon’s head in response is <em>I want to give you everything.</em> Which is, well. Not at all untrue, but maybe not a declaration for a small store where they’ve already attracted some stares. (Not like they have anything on Jon’s, but it’s the principle of the thing.)</p><p>“If- you know that I like painting my nails,” Jon starts slowly, switching tracks from what he was planning to say. Martin nods cautiously, eyes still a touch wider than normal. “And I rather thought that- well. I thought you’d look good in nail polish.” He abruptly realizes how silly he sounds. “Only if you want to, though!” he hurries to add. “Really, I think I just want an excuse to paint someone else’s nails, it’s been some time and it’s always-”</p><p>Ah. Martin’s cheeks have pinked rather beautifully.</p><p>Jon softens. “What do you think?” He reaches out a hand and, like always, Martin is ready to take it. Jon tugs him forward. It’s a largely performative gesture, as Martin is more than capable of resisting even Jon’s fear-entity-augmented strength, but Martin follows him easily. This time it’s Jon wrapping his arms around Martin, just a brief press before Jon releases him. Martin’s grin is tremulous but wide, and Jon returns it in full as he makes some sweeping, overdramatic gesture at the shelf. “The choice is yours, good sir.”</p><p>“Oh, shove off,” Martin snorts, but when Jon steps aside to allow him better access, he moves in to survey his choices immediately.</p><p>Jon is content to let him take as long as he needs to make a decision, and indeed it’s a delight to watch Martin’s fingers flutter over different bottles. Watching him carefully compare two similar shades, Jon is momentarily overwhelmed, for what must be the billionth time, by the amount of care Martin affords the smallest things.</p><p>He compulsively clears his throat. Martin glances over, holding what looks like a shimmery pink, and raises his eyebrows in question. Jon huffs and tries to pretend his cheeks haven’t heated. Martin laughs lightly and returns to his search, and Jon does his best to quash the stupid grin overtaking his face.</p><p>He had been trying not to guess at what Martin would pick, partially for fear he might accidentally Know it, and he holds his breath in anticipation as Martin straightens with a bottle in hand.</p><p>“Show me?” Jon tries to sound casual, but if his voice doesn’t give it away, the face he makes upon taking in the color certainly must. Jon would’ve liked whatever Martin picked out, he’s sure, but…</p><p>In Martin’s hand is a light, bright purple. It’s not exactly the same shade as that pastel purple from so long ago. It’s a little darker, or a little bluer, or a little brighter, he thinks- he can’t be sure in the dim light. It’s not what he’d expected, but. It’s nice. It’s really, really nice.</p><p>“I love it,” Jon declares, or tries his best to through whatever’s suddenly stuck in his throat. He makes for the front of the shop before he realizes Martin isn’t following him, and when he turns around in confusion, he finds Martin just blinking at him, looking equally befuddled.</p><p>“You don’t want to pick another one? Loo- look for something for yourself?” He clutches at the bottle; it’s swallowed up in his large hand.</p><p>“This one’s <em>perfect,”</em> Jon says vehemently, taking Martin’s free hand in his, and Martin looks so surprised that Jon thinks he believes it.</p><p>Jon can barely wipe the smile off his face as Martin plunks the bottle onto the counter. The person behind it looks a little less thrilled at the fact that two grown men had entered the cluttered store and managed to get nothing but a single, tiny bottle of nail polish, but Martin is warm against Jon’s side and his hand remains in Jon’s and Jon thinks they can be forgiven for it, just this once.</p><p> </p><p>Back at the safehouse, the motions of getting prepared are a well-worn groove to settle into. Jon assures Martin no towels are needed, which he agrees to gratifyingly readily, and though Martin’s nails are a bit long, they’re decently even. Jon thinks nothing of grabbing Martin’s hand and settling it on his thigh, but he glances up and sees Martin flushing, which makes his own cheeks warm, and then they have to spend two minutes determinedly looking away from each other as Jon shakes the bottle with perhaps more vigor than is warranted. (All of which is absolutely ridiculous, since this is <em>not</em> the most intimate thing they’ve ever done. Dragging someone out of a hell dimension with the power of love is one hell of a first date, after all.)</p><p>Jon unscrews the cap and takes a second to breathe in the smell. He has the sudden, absurd urge to ask Martin if he’s sure. Of <em>what,</em> Jon’s not sure, but he holds his breath for a second as he taps the brush against the neck of the bottle and looks up at Martin.</p><p>“Ready?” he manages to get out, and Martin’s smile is- is-</p><p>Jon has never been an artist of any kind, but suddenly he wishes that his hands were capable of wielding a brush other than the kind in his hands. Still, these are the tools he can use, so use them he will.</p><p>They’re quiet as Jon starts. Jon is concentrating so hard he’s barely breathing- for some reason, the idea of accidentally getting any nail polish at all on Martin’s cuticles is <em>mortifying-</em> and Martin seems uninclined to break the silence. Jon wishes he would.Still, it doesn’t take too long to apply a coat to each finger of Martin’s left hand, and Jon straightens after just a minute, capping the bottle and shaking it again. “What do you think of the color?” </p><p>Martin squints down and grimaces, and Jon can’t hold back his startled bark of laughter. “No, no, I like it!” Martin rushes to insist, a blush already starting to stain his cheeks.</p><p>“You don’t have to <em>lie,”</em> Jon laughs, but he curses the fact that they hadn’t thought to get nail polish remover. He then does the mental equivalent of batting away the Beholding’s unhelpful provision that the store had not in fact had any.</p><p>Opposite him, Martin squawks. “I mean it! It’s just- ugh, maybe I should’ve expected it getting it for as cheap as we did, but it’s just a little more see-through than I would’ve liked, you know?”</p><p>It’s Jon’s turn to squint at Martin’s hand. “No, that- once I put a second coat on, it’ll look fine, Martin.” Martin brightens.</p><p>“You’re sure?”</p><p>“Yes, Martin, quite sure,” Jon promises, huffing fondly. Martin beams at him, beatific.</p><p>“Well, carry on, then.”</p><p>Carry on Jon does, this time with easy chatter flowing between the two of them, and when he pulls back for a final time, he can’t hold back his smile.</p><p>“What do you think?”</p><p>“I <em>love</em> it, Jon,” Martin breathes out. His face is alight with joy Jon had put there, eyes crinkling with the force of a smile straining to fit on his face, and what is Jon supposed to do, <em>not</em> kiss him?</p><p>Martin leans forward to meet him easily, and it’s as lovely as it’s been every time they’ve done this, which makes Jon feel very bad for the way he yelps and pulls back when Martin brings a hand to his face. Martin draws away just as quickly, already getting ready to apologize<strong>, </strong>andJon all but trips over himself trying to assuage that wrinkle between his brow.</p><p>“Hair! I- my hair’s still loose, I don’t want any getting stuck in your nail polish.” He makes a face. “Redoing the nail would be such a pain.”</p><p>Martin’s shoulders relax, and he hisses. “Ooh, yeah, that’d be bad.” He pauses and frowns. “Shouldn’t you have tied your hair back for this? Before we started, I mean?”</p><p>“I’m perfectly capable of ensuring that my hair doesn’t fall in my face, Martin,” Jon sniffs loftily, mostly to cover for the fact that he very much should have remembered an elastic, or at the very least braided his hair back. Martin is obviously unimpressed, but he doesn’t bother stifling his smile.</p><p>“Sure, sure,” he laughs. “Anyway, shouldn’t you be more concerned about nail polish getting in your hair than with my nails getting messed up?” Jon scrunches up his face and waves his hand as though to wave the idea away. Martin snorts fondly and leans in again, placing a brief but firm kiss upon his lips. Jon absolutely does not flush at this. </p><p>“I’ll be very disappointed if you mess up your nails, Mr. Blackwood,” Jon warns, trying his best to radiate stern disapproval rather than pleased embarrassment. He doesn’t think he succeeds.</p><p>“And we wouldn’t want that, now would we.” Martin widens his eyes and nods in mock-solemnity, and they hold out for a grand total of four seconds before collapsing into giggles.</p><p><em>We deserve this,</em> Jon thinks, the thought ringing clear and sweet as a bell through his head. The pattern of Martin’s freckles dancing on his cheeks, the color shining on his big and dependable hands, the warm weight of his hand resting on Jon’s leg. They deserve this.</p><p>Jon brings Martin’s hands into his, exaggeratedly careful, and though Martin scoffs at him, he can’t hide the red blooming on his cheeks. Jon smiles and squeezes gently, and the red deepens. And their hands are made of skin and bone, and they are warm, and when they shake it is not from fear or cold or loneliness but from laughter, and they’re alright. They’re alright. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><ul>Nail polish references in this fic:
<li>Jon’s <a href="https://i.pinimg.com/474x/8a/ea/62/8aea62c796d4753646ea8db87d743aab.jpg">pastel purple</a>
</li>
<li>Chris from Accounting’s <a href="https://www.essie.com/-/media/Project/loreal/brand-sites/essie/Americas/US/products_nailpolish_hd/enamels/Blues/095008001012/ESSIE-enamel-aruba-blue-pack-shot.jpg">blue</a>
</li>
<li>Jon’s <a href="https://www.beautypie.com/wcsstore/fs-cas/images/catalog/2000x2000/Wondercolour%20Nail%20Polish/BEAUTYPIE_Wondercolour_Nail_Polish_Riot_Act_Red_968012_2000_3.jpg">scarlet</a>, <a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nM8iRlXKA_Q/WuICE0ZcCFI/AAAAAAAA1ng/7iMKIOBuduoXpss_vlwMlls44gWmjoMJwCLcBGAs/s1600/Zoya%2BVirginia%2BSunshine%2BCollection%2BSummer%2B2018%2B1.jpg">coral</a>, <a href="https://i.pinimg.com/originals/eb/b9/be/ebb9bea72458a798da57b98f3f7e46cd.jpg">maroon</a>, and <a href="https://www.rankandstyle.com/media/lists/g/grey-nail-polishes_ICrzthG.jpg">slate gray</a>
</li>
<li>Georgie’s <a href="http://thepolishedpursuit.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/FullSizeRender-8.jpg">red</a>, plus that one <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xwt6me0p98c/U5PZCt5aufI/AAAAAAAADGg/oFRrLApW6JU/s1600/china-glaze-i-sea-the-point.jpg">blue</a> Jon disliked so much</li>
<li>If Tim had ever gotten his fricking nails done, he would’ve picked this <a href="https://www.essie.com/-/media/Project/loreal/brand-sites/essie/Americas/US/products_nailpolish_hd/enamels/Blues/095008018485/ESSIE-enamel-all-access-pass-on-hand-1.jpg?h=530&amp;hash=74773F27DDBEAE8E7AFD413C1F1430D16EA1A3C6">blue violet</a>, <a href="https://bossa.mx/wp-content/uploads/2017/08/13.jpg">teal</a>, or <a href="https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/1325/8883/products/pink_nail_polish_bubblegum_heroine.nyc_glittr.jpg?v=1571499980">pink</a>, or just black because it’s “classy.” Also he would’ve used glitter because I love him and he deserves it</li>
<li>Daisy’s <a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-d1JPM5uUKDg/VUeMI6M6AMI/AAAAAAAAP-0/nguhAW-CiTE/s1600/color-club-under-the-black-light.png">yellow</a>
</li>
<li>
<a href="https://i.pinimg.com/originals/49/60/5b/49605b7a802032cbc51e5b57615a5505.jpg">Plum</a>, <a href="https://i.pinimg.com/originals/fd/79/75/fd79755a1659adf7a659094bc8d60854.jpg">deep green</a>, <a href="https://chicnailart.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/Sugar-Daddy.jpg">almost-invisible pink</a>, <a href="https://i.pinimg.com/originals/cf/09/d8/cf09d890ee6aed4e0a140bd5db848b07.jpg">light blue</a>, <a href="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/719hq5R4KVL._SL1000_.jpg">sparkly aqua blue</a>, <a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4513/37844438046_280f84035a_b.jpg">navy blue</a> (PLEASE ignore the name of the pink)</li>
<li>I’m not listing the last nail polish, you can decide what that one looks like yourself &lt;3</li>
</ul><p>(I’m not recommending or promoting any brands, by the way!!! Nor are the prices or qualities of the nail polishes described meant to match with what I’ve linked here!!! I just needed these color references listed out PURELY for my own sake aksdjskldfj. Also, PLEASE tell me if one of the links is broken, because while compiling this list some kept fizzling out, not to mention that it was EXHAUSTING to hyperlink everything, so it would really suck if they didn’t work!!!)</p><p>God, I really hope you enjoyed!!! If you did, you can always check me out or come chat on <a href="https://princess-of-purple-prose.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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